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333 The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes The Breezes fetch along— And hold the Sunshine in its lap And bow to everything— And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls— And make itself so fine A Duchess were too common For such a noticing— And even when it dies—to pass In Odors so divine— Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep— Or Spikenards, perishing— And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell— And dream the Days away, The Grass so little has to do I wish I were a Hay—
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:40 PM | Viewed: 10015 times
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Emily Dickinson
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